Litany

You are the bread and the knife

the cristal globet and the wine.

You are the dew on the morning grass,

and the burning weel of the sun.

You are the white apron of the baker

and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,

the plums on the counter,

or the house of cards.

And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.

There is no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,

maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,

but you are not even close

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the boots in the corner

nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,

speaking of the pletiful imagery of the word,

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,

the evening paper blowing down an alley,

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon on the trees

and the blind woman´s teacup.

But don't worry, I am not the bread at the knife.

You are still the bread at the knife.

not to mention the crystal globet and - somehow-

the wine.

Billy Collins. Nine Horses, Picador.